


Under Lock and Key

by Number29253



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage, Dominance, Dystopia, M/M, Prison, Prison Sex, Reality TV, Russia, Sicilia, Solitary Confinement, Swearing, Violence, Yaoi, m/m - Freeform, mafia, reality show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Number29253/pseuds/Number29253
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2026, post-nuclear world. In a federal prison, two inmates are locked up in a cell, inside Solitary Confinement. Wait a minute. What's the definition of "Solitary Confinement" again ? Yaoi/Dystopia/RealityShow</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi !
> 
> Before we go further, please, do take into account that I am French and that English is not my mothertongue. So get ready for a bunch of foolish mistakes...
> 
> I finally dare to put that online just to share what I wrote. I think bilingual English speaker won't appreciate my numerous mistakes so if I bore you with it - which I can easily understand - feel free to leave because I may disappoint you and make you waste your time with a poorly written fiction !
> 
> If you are (very) patient and/or very nice, feel free to correct any mistake you see, I would be immensely grateful.
> 
> If you're not - as I am - a very good English speaker, and if you can cope with my grammatically incorrect fiction, I hope you will enjoy what will happen next ! I'm just here to share.
> 
> If you're still here (yay !), do take into account that the fic is not rated M for fun.
> 
> Thank you for your attention.

It was a jail like any other. Bad eggs rotting together in tiny cells. Racism at its finest separated men between a dozen different groups. And you'd better be fitting in one. No option.

The Federal Jail of New Russia – a.k.a. an elarged federal prison somewhere at the former U.S./Mexican border... – was supposed to host the most dangerous men of the Russian Empire. In fact, it was only one of those gloomy swamps in which murderers, burglars, psychos and regime opponents were mixed into an infamous brew. Most of them were supposed to die in here. That was why Mister Icare, Head of the FJNR could allow himself a few funny human experiments with the inmates. No one actually ever saw Mister Icare. Whenever an odd order was given, it was him. Whenever an execution was led, it was him. No one had ever saw his face nor heard his voice. It was said that those who actually had were instantly locked up in the "SSC" - Special Solitary Confinement, or SS Crap, as you like it.

Outside was what is commonly called a dictatorship.

Inside, that was a messed up Wonderland. And Alice had a very special equipment under her dress.

AAA

Crack was a tall Russian man. He was nothing of a brave political opponent. Crack was a man that liked a little bit too much the shining color of blood. That Russian guy had never inhaled anything suspicious. He got his name because of the sound the bones of his ennemies made when Crack got angry.

Dodge, on the contrary, was quite a small man, with Sicilian origines. He was very aggressive, and used to attack anyone because of basically anything. His handsome features were now altered by a still vivid scar he had gotten in a fight at the so-called cafeteria.

And that was because of that fight that Dodge had to be locked up in the SHU. He was in that awful place with the silent Crack. Normally, the inmates put into SHU were supposed to be alone. Dodge and Crack knew long enough to understand that Mister Icare had them locked together, certainly for entertainment purpose.

Crack was titanic, and not the kind to cope easily with Dodge manners. Dodge was a violent tiger, lieutenant of the head of the Italians in FJNR.

Mister Icare would eventually have his fun.

AAA

\- Hey ! What the fuck is that gigantic twat doing in my cell ! Yo !

Dodge hadn't appreciated very much to have a mate. Especially in a four-meter-square room. With one matress. And one cover. Slowly, the so-called gigantic twat gazed at the young and over-agressive italian guy. That little guy had quite a tanned skin, and two green eyes glowing like emeralds. That may sound appealing, but madness could be eventually seen in those glowing emeralds. Madness or despair. Or both. Crack had dead-like eyes. And everybody knew it was better to keep his look dead and lost. When Crack's look went back to life... well... everybody is aware of the fact that crack kills.

Crack was laying down his matress – a yellowish, one-inches-thick cover, actually –, staring blindly at the ceiling, splattered with remnants of food and various human fluids. He didn't bat an eye at the lousy entrance of his so-called room mate.

\- Yo ! What the fuck are you doing here, russian scum !

Crack ignored the arrogant boy who was obviously eager to start a fight. He did basically nothing. Between his teeth, Dodge hissed :

\- Are you fucking deaf ? Are you...

Responding to his instinctive urge to attack, Dodge tried to grab the arm of the tall Russian.

It is known that the cat has a better nervous connectivity that the human one. One hundred and ten meter per second for the cat, versus eighty for the man exactly. Crack looked like a neurasthenic gorilla. But he had the nerves of a tiger. Without even frowning, he took the hand of Dodge in his own and both twisted and crushed it. The pain was sickening, as well as the immediate feeling that Crack was a kind of cold-blooded beast that made people suffer without a second thought.

Dodge understood at once that he had lost. That was the game, in FJNR. A tough game, though. Even the fact that Crack hadn't even glanced at his victim prooved that he was the alpha. When the metacarpals bones snapped, with a noise that strangely sounded like the one of broken eggshells, Dodge understood that, in this gloomy four meter-square room, he had just become a submissive hand-broken omega.

And Mister Icare smiled.


	2. Cell Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Thanks for reading! Here is the first chapter, I hope it'll be interesting.

Cell me

Dodge stayed still for hours. At least it seemed to be hours – who could tell? He had kept Crack in sight the whole time, ready to protect his life in case the giant cold-blooded Russian wanted to have fun. But Crack hadn't move an inch, laying on the metallic bed. At some point, the small Italian man heard footsteps in the corridor. It was an ambal.

In FJNR, the inmates loved and cherished traditions. Paradoxically, those men that were meant to despise and hate each other shared what seemed to be inmemorial traditions. The Prison Culture. And they called "ambals" the men that were in charge in SHU. For once, the sound of the loud steps didn't startle Dodge the wrong way. Without any hesitation, he jumped to his feet and rushed to the blind door, knocking on it as if a thousand demons were after him.

"Yo! YO! Dude! Open to me, there's two of us in here! Open that door! Officer! Open the door! Op– "

Dodge realized the ambal hadn't even stopped. A cursing flow came out of his throat, as he pounded his fist on the door. Out of anger, he turned towards Crack, who had only frowned a little.

"The fuck is that?! I'm not gonna stay with you psycho! How come I'm in here? That's not the fucking rule! That's– "

Eventually, Crack opened his mouth, and his voice – a slow, deep voice, with something of a slavic accent – interrupted Dodge complaints.

"Stop. Babbling."

Of course, that was enough to put fire to that human match that was Dodge.

"Babbling? Babbling? You fucktard, because you're Russian you think you rule the place? You think you guys are stronger and wiser than anyone around here? I tell bullshit. You big retarded ass ain't nothing but– "

This time, Crack hadn't talked. He had stood up.

Dodge realized two things at once : first, his roommate was tall as hell. Second : his broken hand hurt a lot.

"Don't gimme that dead look, you jackass", Dodge said on a less confident tone. "Don't you know who I am?"

"I know you are the little knife-holder of that AlPack' looser", Crack answered calmly, getting closer to the small man.

AlPack' was the name the chief of the internal Sicilian maffia was given. Good old references.

"Can't you even get the 'r' pronounciation right?" Dodge laughed.

"You know, when you laugh, it sounds already as if you cry."

Crack bent over Dodge, without a trace of fear. Those dark green eyes were by far the scariest the Italian had ever seen. Not because they were threatening him, in fact, but because he couldn't read any emotion, any feeling in it.

All of a sudden, Dodge felt air leaving his lungs and then an intense pain right on his diaphragma. Crack was a giant for sure, but when it came to fighting, he had his ways so that nobody could tell from where he had struck. Striving to breathe, Dodge fell against the door. He then felt two big hands cupping his knees, and the grip was so tight it was already painful. Crack pushed the legs of his victim so that the small man was pinned to the door, and proceeded to tighten his grip.

"What the– What are you–" the Sicilian panted. "Leave m– ahi!"

Dodge squealed, and pain led to fear. That monster of a man was going to break both his knees – and even maybe his thigh bones – and he could do strictly nothing about it. The deep cold voice of the tall Russian resounded in the little cell :

"Cry for help."

"Wh– Ooooh, perch–"

"Cry. For. Help."

Dodge was a proud man. He considered getting both his kneecaps crushed instead of being humiliated twice in the same day, by the same man. But pain was getting more and more intense. Dodge gave in.

"Help! HELP! Please!"

"You can do better than that", Crack said in a low voice.

His fingers found way all around the patellae. Dodge had a quick but terrifying thought, seeing himself covered in blood, legs dislocated in the most sickening way, at the jail morgue. He then screamed, not because Crack had told him to do so, but because he had went mad with fear. The young man howled with pain and terror, yelled for an ambal to come and pepperspray the mountain of craziness Crack was, but no one came. No sound was heard but the screams of the Sicilian man. Not even a "Shut up!"... Crack inflicted searing pain to Dodge's joints for several minutes. At one point, the Italian stopped shouting, for he had lost both his breath and voice. Tears of pain were rolling down his cheeks, and the only thing he could tell was that he had never loathed a man as he loathed his roommate right now. As he had stopped obeying Crack's order, he was preparing his mind to suffer, maybe even to faint, but the unbearable pressure he felt on his legs eased. The Russian hadn't removed his hands yet, but he had stopped torturing Dodge.

"See?" he said, as if they were just talking about the weather. "No one. No one for you, suka. I could have killed you. Or worse. Or better. Depends on the point of view."

Dodge, eyes wide open, was trying to cope with the pain that actually made his legs shake. All his muscles contracted when Crack stretched his arm to wipe his tears.

"There, there, allora. Or should I say aljura?"

A strange sound erupted from Crack's throat. A growling, maybe. Dodge would soon discover that it was in fact a laugh. The young man had shivered when Crack's hand had touched his face. He hadn't made a single move to protect himself, he hadn't even flinched. Because he had understood : one stupid word, one misinterpreted movement, and so long, handsome Italian features! So long brain and life too, but that was secundary. Crack was really confident. He knew he was the strongest by far, and that he could make everyone play by his rules.

The Russian man got closer to Dodge, one hand cupping his face, the other firmly put on his shoulder.

"Now, listen, vatroushka. Here, I am the biggest, the strongest. And I am more crazy than you are. Da? So we will play by my rules. You understand my accent?"

Crack's face was quite expressiveless. He looked always calm and apeased. At this precise moment, Dodge's face was nothing but fearful. He felt ready to burst into tears – not of pain, this time.

"You understand my accent, allora? I do not want you to feel embarrassed or insecure, no!"

Dodge felt the Russian's fingers sinking in his shoulder. Crack wasn't a patient kind of man. He wanted his answer.

"I– I do", the Sicilian mumbled.

"Oh, good! Then here are the rules : everthing in this room is mine. You included. My bed, my cover, my mattress, my toy", Crack described, pointing each thing with his finger. "If food comes in here : mine too. You sleep here, as far as possible as you can from my bed. If I hear you cry, or swear, or talk, or moving too much, you get a good beating up. Da? Beating up? Know what it is or I have to show?"

Crack raised his clenched fist, ready to punch, but Dodge had the nerve to answer :

"I know. Don't need to show."

"Harasha. Do not hesitate to ask me in case you need the explanation anyway!"

And Crack said that as if he was suggesting to have a drink in a fancy bar...

Crack eventually came back to his bed, laid on it and felt asleep. Or at least he pretended to. Dodge found advisable to stay on the ground, against the metallic door. He was less scared now that his roommate was away. And as fear faded away, the instinctive urge for revenge replaced it. As soon as the small and nervous man could find a weakness in this huge iron giant, he would use it to destroy the Russian to the core.

Hours went by. Dodge felt asleep more than he would have wanted to. He was awoken by the loud sound of footsteps coming. An ambal. Without even looking at him, Crack ordered :

"Move."

The Italian man didn't try to rebel. Confidence between him and the Russian would be essential to get his revenge. He just had to move a bit to the right, and that seemed sufficient to Crack, who stood up and went to get a food plate that was slipped under the door, through a thin hole that could only be opened from the outside. But there was only one food plate. For only one person.

"I don't under–" Dodge began, as he could hear the ambal going away.

His heart leapt, for he had noticed the way all the arm muscles of his roommate had contracted. A good beating up. Yeah. Sure. Crack's threatening voice resounded again in the tiny cell :

"I am not very sure, allora, but did you say something?"

Dodge did not commit the error to answer verbally. He only shook his head.

"That is what I thought", Crack said. "Good boy. Now you lay down and sleep. For he who sleeps forget his hunger, da?"

And Dodge, sick at heart, obeyed.

AAA

"Aaaaand now, ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to our fantastic TV show : Cell Me! I guess you are all very eager to discover who was killed yesterday? Who died of cold? Who starved to death? Ugh! That crazy guy from Paris had surprised everybody until now, but – oh là là! – you'll see how he can have his ways in a tiny tiny cell with only a tiny tiny razor blade and a – pardon my french – hell of a sense of humor!"

The high-pitched voice of the TV anchorman was actually quite catching. Unfortunately, Yuri's mother opened the door of his room furiously.

"Yuri! For the last time : enough with that TV! Switch it off! And what are you wat– Oh, come on, this program is not appropriate for children!"

"But Moooom, it's fuuuuunny! And I'm not a..."

"Lights off! Yuri! Or I go down in the basement and cut the electricity in your bedroom"

Yuri knew his mother could carry out her threat. He switched off the TV and sighed out of despair.

"Goodnight sweetheart. And don't fool yourself : none of this is real. Those people are paid actors. They would definitely not allow this in real life!"

A soft laugh, a kiss, and naïve Yuri felt into Morpheus' arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note : here are some words explained... Suka basically means bitch in Russian. Crack's pun on allora and aljura is quite simple : the first word is quite old slang for Italianguy and the second means prostitute. Easy one, Crack... Vatroushka is pastry with cream on it. Or a prostitute. Da means "yes" in Russian. "Ambal" means "big tough guy". An "ambal" is supposed to be quite threatening, but also quite stupid, and it's Russian slang too. "Harasha" (written "horosho") means "very good".
> 
> Hope there wasn't too many mistakes! Don't hesitate to point them out! And of course : thank you for reading so far!


	3. The French guy's up to no good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi !
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading so far. Thanks for the fav/follows! And special thanks to Fryvi & Kieram! (I just hope you will enjoy the following chapters..).
> 
> See you!

The French guy's up to no good

A few months ago.

"Crack, please –"

"Shut up, Tylla."

Tylla, a young man, whose features were altered by various nervous tics, curled up as if the tall Russian had just threatened him of death. He looked quite smart in his a-thousand-bucks suit, especially in comparison with the shabbily dressed Crack.

"You owe me, Tylla. You do know that."

"I– I do, I do, Crack. But it's far too dangerous, I can't–"

"Remind me, Tylla, who died because of you?" Crack asked with a devilish grin.

"It– I didn't want it to hap–"

"And I don't want to enter that hell of a place", Crack growled, making the other man curl up again out of angst. "I don't want to be part of that awful scheme. I don't want to play that sick game of theirs. Of yours, should I say, da, Tylla?"

"If– if I get caught–" Tylla mumbled, wringing his hands.

"Oh, poor you, poor Tylla", Crack laughed.

It was his laugh that made that smart-looking man cringe. He knew what kind of horror could follow that special laugh. The tall Russian looked at Tylla with bare disgust. He hated him, for sure. And Tylla knew that was perfectly normal.

"Tylla. Listen to me. You getting caught has very little chance to happen. Me getting imprisoned, mentally and physically tortured is an evidence. Remind me again who died? Who died because of your utter stupidity and cowardise?"

The sharp-dressed man curled up even more when he fell the large hand of Crack falling on his shoulder. He would have prefered not having to prononce that name, cursed among all.

"Maya."

Crack's fingers buried into his flesh like fangs. Tylla squealed.

"Please, Crack, please! No, plea– Don't loose it! Remember if you kill me you can't–"

"You killed Maya."

"I'll do as you say, Crack, but please", cried the victim, "Please, let me go!"

Crack's eyes darkened. The disgust in his face turned into a mix of wrath and pure hatred. His voice was now nothing but a threatening growl:

"I will never let you go."

AAA

Tylla glanced at one of the monitors and immediately turned away. Crack, even locked up in a tiny cell in SHU, even dressed up in the classic orange inmates' uniform, scared him to death.

Tylla was in charge of the script of Cell Me, a very popular, although quite inappropriate for general audiences, TV program. The "actors", unpaid and unaware of what was going on, were the most interesting inmates of FJNR. And by "interesting" the governement of New Russia implied "psychotics and/or talented killers". Cell Me was by far the most entertaining show for the empire of New Russia. A simple question remained : fake or not? But that question was most often quickly eluded. The people had fun. Only one winner could get free, rich and famous. Last season, a psycho was allowed to go "out". The minister of Communications had had to control some groups of victims that had gathered in eastern Europe but, apart from them, who cared if the game was true or fake? It was freaking addictive. Millions of people watched it and voted for what would be the next weapon available, who would get a first aid kit, who could get away in a real solitary cell to rest for twenty-four hours... Yeah, Cell Me was quite the thrill.

Tylla observed another screen. He could see a strange inmate, the kind of man who's said to have affected manners, always smiling. Always babbling like a six years old. Tylla had seen that guy doing the most sickening things to his former inmates in that season. Strangely, Richard D'Herblay was one of the most loved inmates in Cell Me. He had a huge personal fanbase growing on the OI – the Official Internet. Especially among thirty to fourty years old ladies. Tylla suspected that D'Herblay was aware of the fact that cameras were shooting him non-stop. Because that was another thing, in Cell Me. The so-called actors ignored they were part of it. Only one winner could get out, and the minister of Communications took great care to keep him silent about the game. The only ones who could realize how true the show was were the victims. But who cared about the victims?

"The French guy's up to no good!"

Tylla jumped out of fear. One of his colleagues, very much interested about what could D'Herblay invent now, had also focused on Richard D'Herblay's cell monitor.

"Wow, quite stressed, right? What's the matter, Tyll?"

"No– nothing. What's next?"

"For d'Herblay? Pretty much nothing. Look, that creep is going to attack the other one."

"He had not a chance against d'Herblay."

"Sure."

Richard d'Herblay, as if he had heard Tylla and his friend, glanced at them. He waved nicely, with a gentle smile. Something sparkled between his teeth.

"What a creep", Tylla's colleague repeated. "That's the razor blade. Where's the other guy?"

"Behind him", Tylla sighed. "He took a nap. D'Herblay nudged him for good and tied him to the bed until he would wake up."

"Why would he do that? Oh–"

To answer his question, Richard D'Herblay had squatted next to his roommate. That last one was well awoken and was obviously begging and crying – Tylla prefered to work without sound. He knew censorship would hear all the recordings anyway. D'Herblay's victim was a tall skinhead. In real life, people wouldn't have bet one penny on the French guy. Tylla turned his head away, out of disgust:

"How can you watch that– I mean : that's mere torture!"

"Come on", the other smiled. "Everyone is watching it! Did you know there were fanfictions about d'Herblay? Like, people write fantasy stories with him as a– Wow! Damn, that was gross, actually! What a twisted imagination that frog has! Look! Come on, take a look!"

"No, thanks. That's sick."

Leaving the control screens area, Tylla entered the Script Control Room. He was in charge of the place for that season, replacing his boss who suffered bad injuries from a dramatic car crash. It was a lot of pressure. Tylla wasn't part of the scenarists team, but he could decide what the "public vote" results were. A.k.a. : people gave the minister of Communications a lot of money to have the feeling they could control some decisions in the game. Of course, that was only a feeling. And thank you for the ten-bucks-text you sent to express your opinion, by the way.

"Okay." Tylla whispered. "Room R-38. Inmates 3185 and 4001."

He tapped away at the keyboard and Crack and Dodge's mugshots appeared in front of him.

"Okay, okay. So, they are both first level, and we have a–, that's right : the Path Choice. What? A razor blade versus a bandage. Not very original. Well– "

Tylla himself now had to choose : he could order the computer to send Dodge or Crack to the "kitchen". There, the happy winner could make a choice, and get back to his cell with a razor blade or a bandage. Tylla knew he had to send Crack. He knew it was the right thing to do. He knew he owed this to Crack. The problem was : Tylla owed a lot more to Crack.

After all, what were the chances for Crack to survive successively twenty-five dangerous confrontations?

Tylla watched Dodge's face. He looked intelligent and nervous. Maybe he could manage Crack. It was clear that the handsome-looking Italian man strived for revenge.

AAA

A deafening ringing made Dodge jump to his feets. Four red dots appeared on the wall opposing the metallic door. The tall Russian sighed, raised from his bed and went to put his hands on the dots.

"Allora, if you don't want us both to get cellectrified, come and put your hands on the red lights. Place your feets like mine", Crack growled.

Quickly, Dodge placed his hands and feet as told.

A screeching came from the door. Dodge began to shiver. He was hungry, and scared. What would come from the outside? Another Russian bully? Were they going to be shot in the back? What on Earth–

"Inmate 3185. Inmate 3185. Follow luminscent arrows. That is an order", a metallic voice said, coming from the ceiling – although no megaphone could be seen up there.

"That's you", Crack precised.

"Inmate 4001. Inmate 4001. Stay inside cell R-38. Door will remain open until Inmate 3185 will come back. Any disobedience will lead to lethal cellectrification."

Crack gritted his teeth. He had understood.

Dodge, unsure of what was awaiting him at the end of the luminscent path of arrows that had appeared on the floor, glanced at his roommate. He didn't know why, but he felt as if Crack was not the worst thing that would happen to him in that very weird SHU. Eventually, he went out.

The red dots disappeared, and Crack sighed. He wasn't angry at that Italian guy. The boy was trying to survive, and was just a bit too loud-mouthed. Fair enough. Crack angriness was now led towards another person he knew that was outside FJNR. A person that had betrayed him. Twice, now.

Crack lied over the bed again, staring at the door wide open. For sure, the Italian boy would choose the razor blade. It was just going to be a child game to discover where he would try to hide it. The tall Russian exhaled. Tylla had blatantly betrayed him like the coward he was.

It was time to go to plan B.


	4. Trade

Hi !

Thanks a lot for reading so far. 

See you!

AAA

Trade

"'Ello!"

Dodge jumped. He hadn't noticed that stunning blond man when he had entered the 'kitchen'. The stranger had aristocratic features and everything about him made the Italian man think of a Greek god. Like Adonis.

Dodge had found his way from his tiny isolation cell to the 'kitchen'. The Kitchen was quite a spacious room, with a big long table in the middle. There was also a brand new microwave and an oven on one side, which was completely reckless from FJNR administration. A lot of coloful cupbords hid the walls. It looked nothing like a prison.

Adonis smiled at the astonished face of Dodge and asked :

"Is it your first time in 'ere?"

The man's voice sounded like the flight of a dove. Soft, caressing, silky... But Dodge knew he wasn't in Paris for the fashion week. He was in jail, near Mexico, and however nice this guy might look, he was a criminal too. The young Italian man turned towards the long table, where two black boxes had been laid. His own name, written on a sheet of paper, was behind them.

"Not so talkative, hmm?"

Adonis' smile widened, making Dodge feel quite uncomfortable.

"Who are you?" the Sicilian boy grunted.

"Inmate numéro 2104, nice to meet you."

The French smiled again and walked towards Dodge. He sat a few feet away from the boxes, on a bench. He read out loud the name written on the paper and waved his hand:

"Yoohoo! Is that you? Hmm?"

"Yeah. What's that?" Dodge asked, unwilling to move an inch, pointing to the boxes.

"This is a little present, dear boy! Ah, 'e is so cute!"

Adonis shook his head and smiled once more.

"You have to pick up one."

"Why only one? Why not both?"

"That's the rule. Everybody knows that. Plus, it's written on your little piece of paper."

Dodge decided to come closer. He took the paper and read the instruction. Indeed, he had to choose. But he could first open both the boxes to check what was in.

"Sit down, it's okay!" Adonis giggled.

Dodge glanced at him with what he hoped to be mere disdain. But he was too nervous to fake any emotion properly. The French guy was so exited he looked like he was about to clap his hands.

"Open! Open! Open!"

"Don't pee yourself, you moron."

"You have a quick tongue, young man, I like that!"

Creepy, Dodge thought. Anyway, he opened the boxes. He couldn't repress a smile at the sight of the first item : a bandage roll. Enough to protect and fix his broken hand – that was hurting him a lot, still. But the Italian man gasped at the second object. He couldn't help mumbling:

"That's– That's forbidden!"

"Not at all! In this special place, you can 'ave so much fun! Take it! It's going to be such a party!"

"Calm your tits, man. If some ambal catches me carrying that shit, it ain't gonna be a party for me!"

"'ave you only seen an ambal, recently? No one! Nobody! Come on, you can take it. It's a present, for God's sake!"

Dodge thought about Crack. Sure, he could easily slit his throat open with that sharp blade. But on the other hand, his huge roommate could also easily steal the razor blade from him. What could happen next was what Dodge feared most. To bring back a razor blade in a tiny room with this crazy Russian guy wouldn't be a smart move at all. Let's be wise, for once, Dodge thought. Moreover, revenge is a dish best savored cold.

Everything was too weird. Way too weird.

"My roommate wouldn't appreciate", the Italian man whispered.

He took the bandage rool.

"I am, oh, so disappointed of you", sighed the French guy.

"Good for you."

"But let's be friends anyway!" Adonis smiled, opening his arms wide. "My name's Richard."

He pronounced his name funnily. 'Reeshor'.

"You sure are a Dick", Dodge sniggered.

"Richard d'Herblay."

"Okay. Cool. I'm on the leave."

The French guy put his hand on Dodge's wrist. With his index finger, he brushed against the Italian's broken hand. It was nothing painful, but Adonis' smile was now scary as hell.

"Do not touch m–"

"I am from France. In France, there is a tradition, when you're leaving someone."

Dodge heared a strange noise coming from the mouth of the weirdo facing him. As if he was chewing something metallic. A cold shiver went through his spine. Something bad was going on, and Dodge didn't know what.

AAA

Crack jumped, ready to fight. He had heard a hurried pace in the corridor, and the door was still open. Dodge rushed in the tiny cell, out of breath. He run at the opposite side of the room, and clenched to the rudimentary toilet pan. His eyes were wide open, he was hyperventilating, and his lips were horribly torn. He had blood all over his chin, neck, and shirt.

Crack didn't have time to think. Another man appeared. He was walking casually, as for a stroll, hands in his pocket. He smiled at the tall Russian and stopped at the entrance of the cell.

"'Ello, my friend. This little boy over 'ere 'as been quite rude to me, could you just send it back so I finish to teach 'im 'is lesson?"

The Russian noticed there was blood over the blond guy's mouth and shirt too. Obviously not his.

"Why don't you come in?" he slowly asked.

"Impossible. I would be cellectrified. And I don't want to proove that point. Please, give him to me. A trade, maybe? Trrrade, da? What would a nasty big Russian bear like you would enjoy?" d'Herblay cackled.

Dodge tried to escape Crack's big hand, but his grip on his neck was too strong and painful.

"That's what you want, Bonjour?" the Russian said.

"N– No–" Dodge shivered. "Don't, he– he's– Please don't!"

Crack tightened his grip on Dodge's cervical vertebrae, making him cringe from pain.

"I 'ave that nice, beautiful, 'ighly functional lighter!" d'Herblay exclamed, showing a zippo and lighting it up.

He had the voice of a phoney TV anchor.

"Peeeeerfect for branding your pets, if you 'appen to have one in your cell! Now, let's trade!"

Crack came closer to the door. Richard d'Herblay licked his bloody teeth and lips, tensed with expectation. Dodge prefered to look away. He couldn't fight against the tall Russian man. He was too weak. The French guy cackled out of excitement.

"He's close enough", Crack said with his rough accent. "Give me the lighter now. That loud-mouth is funnier to play with than a lighter."

"You said it!"

D'Herblay cast the zippo onto the matress, behind Crack. He gave the Russian a bright smile, and Dodge clenched his teeth, ready to run whenever he could. Richard d'Herblay clapped his hands :

"What are you waiting fo–"

Crack only had to raise his leg and give a kick to the chest of the French man. It was enough to propulse him on the wall of the corridor, out of breath.

"Thank you for the zippo, French asshole."

"You– son of a–" d'Herblay coughed.

But the metallic door of the tiny cell closed itself mechanichally, before the French psycho could reach to his feet. Crack released Dodge with a sigh. The Italian man realized only at that moment that he was crying.

"Little Italian boy? Do you 'ear me?" the psycho croaked in the corridor.

Dodge squatted, exactly as if he had felt the first sismic wave of an earthquake. This guy terrified him even more that Crack did.

"Yay, competition! That only makes you more valuable to me, little boy! Have a nice evening!"

And the unbearable laugh of d'Herblay made the Sicilian shiver violently.


	5. Extra Note

Sorry not a chapter...  
From now on I'll gather my works on Wattpad - same titles, same name! - if you wish to keep up!  
Have a nice day.  
https://www.wattpad.com/user/Number29253


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